Saturnine

by Dan Abnett

  The Great Angel wrenched the spear free, and fell backwards. He dropped, then his wings grabbed the air, his fall turned into flight, and he raced like a missile across the churned earth that had been expecting his impact. The Warhound stumbled backwards, sparks spraying from the gaping puncture in its head. The Warlord, annoyed and protective of its fledglings, declined both principal limb guns and opened fire, swinging at the waist as it tracked Sanguinius’ low and rapid line of flight. The catastrophic firepower ripped earth, mud and rockcrete slabs apart, chewing an enormous burning crescent in the ground.

  Sanguinius swept clear of the chasing hail of fire. His wings carried him faster than the Warlord could traverse. He banked again, turning in, climbing, his wings beating at the limit of their strength, and came at the right flank of the engine that had once been proud to call itself Solemnis Bellus.

  He powered up its side, a vertical climb. The Great Angel dragged his spear as he ascended, raking the blade tip through flank armour, lipping a long, ugly gash from hip to breastwork that spewed cinders and black fluid.

  He crested the Warlord, forty metres off the ground, hung for a moment, and dropped onto its shoulders, straight onto the armoured nape behind the skull-head.

  The Spear of Telesto slid into the back of its head.

  Ugly, choking snorts echoed from the engine’s war-horns. The huge Warlord shook and swayed. Both eyes blew out, flames and fragments of cockpit glass bursting from the skull sockets.

  Sanguinius tightened his grip. The spear, harpooned deep into the base of the engine’s skull, glowed briefly, and pulsed energy into Solemnis Bellus. Sub-detonations went off in its waist assemblies, its hips, and out through the back of its drive compartment. Sanguinius plucked the spear, raced forward, and took off, lofting clear of The machine’s prow as the death blast claimed it.

  Bright fire, an internal blast of devastating force, burst through its torso and sheared off one of its weapon limbs. It fell sideways, legs locked, and hit the ground so hard it slapped up waves of mud and soil lite earth shook. The wall shook. Halen reached out to steady himself As it came down, the giant’s head connected with the out-spur of a stone revetment, and was twisted backwards so it ended neck-broken, gaping at the dead sky.

  Secondary blasts rippled through the immense metal carcass. A magazine blew up, showering flames and molten steel. The mud, polluted water and debris hurled up by its gargantuan impact began to rain down in a half-kilometre radius, a torrential downpour of slime, fluid and metal fragments.

  Sanguinius landed on the butchered earth, facing his kill. Backlit by the god-machine’s huge pyre, he rose, wings furled, spear sizzling by his hand, and gazed at the three Warhounds. The one he had wounded was still vomiting sparks, and smoke trailed from its holed head. It whinnied and brayed. All three had come to a halt. They cycled their weapons and washed the Blood Angels primarch with target-seeking systems.

  ‘Try, if you like,’ Sanguinius yelled up at them. ‘Shall we continue?’ There was a long pause. Then the Warhounds moved in unison.

  They took a step backwards, swung around, and ploughed back into the dust the way they had come.

  Later, when the incident was recounted, someone insisted that even a primarch, even the glorious Great Angel, could not stare down three Titan engines. Their auspex must have painted Titan-killing armour – Shadowswords or Slayerblades – that had been closing in, two minutes out.

  But Halen knew what he’d seen.

  Sanguinius flew back to the outworks rampart. The Blood Angels rose from their freshly taken positions along the parapet line as he swept overhead. The Imperial Fists drummed the butts of their bolters against their shields in a crude chorus of martial applause.

  He landed. He leaned on his upright spear for a moment, as a man would rest after hard toil. The Warlord’s black grease and oil-blood spattered his ornate gold armour, his beautiful face, the sunburst labarum behind his head. It dripped from his long, golden hair.

  ‘Fafnir,’ he said, greeting Rann with a nod. He clasped the lord seneschal’s hand, dwarfing it.

  ‘My lord,’ said Rann. ‘They will tell stories of this deed.’

  ‘No, Rann,’ Sanguinius replied.

  ‘I am sure of it, lord,’ Rann said. ‘I’m lucky to have seen a myth being made.’

  They knew the Great Angel of old. A heartfelt comment like Rann’s would have once provoked a smile and a modest laugh. But no smile appeared.

  ‘No story will come of this,’ he said. ‘It was a tiny thing. There are too many stories, Fafnir, my dear brother, and most will be forgotten in a moment as the next takes its place. This is… This is everywhere.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Rann. There was silence all around them.

  ‘I’ve seen it, Fafnir,’ said Sanguinius. ‘From here, to the gate, to the port, across Anterior, across Magnifican. This is everywhere and everything. Far too many stories, a million of them, all destined to be lost, for only the last line of the book matters.’

  ‘Then we had better make sure we’re the ones who write it,’ said Rann.

  Sanguinius did not reply at first. The smallest hint of a smile lit his eyes. It felt to Halen as though the sun had come out, dispelling the infernal gloom.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Sanguinius. He took a deep breath, and straightened up. ‘Indeed, brother. So let’s attempt to hold this line a little longer.’

  * * *

  Dorn left the bastion via the Petitioners Gate, and headed across the yard towards the walkway, two Huscarls in tow. The gate yard was half empty. By the light of fat tapers enclosed in frosted glass hoods, groups of petitioners waited while liveried wardens dealt with their supplications. Most of the petitioners were high-ranking citizens, or civic leaders, and Dorn knew their requests were probably reasonable increased ration allowances, medicae provision, permits for evacuation into the Sanctum. He also knew most would be denied. It was wartime, the wartime. Privations were a necessary burden to be shouldered by any who stood with the Throne.

  His appearance caused a stir, a murmuring. Most averted their gaze, respectful, but he saw a few consider the notion of approaching him. Timidity got the better of them.

  One small group, a mismatched band of men and women of various ages and stations, had taken seats on the stone benches by the arch. As the Praetorian passed, one rose and came to him. It was Sindermann.

  ‘My lord-‘

  A Huscarl blocked his approach.

  ‘I crave just a minute, my lord,’ Sindermann called.

  ‘Not now,’ Dorn replied, and kept walking.

  He paused, then turned back.

  ‘This concerns remembrancers, Sindermann?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘I don’t have time now,’ said Dorn. I may never have time, he thought. ‘But the project has my support. Diamantis will take your proposal and issue your permits, with my authority.’

  Diamantis, one of the Huscarls, glanced at Dorn.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Take their proposal, get it sealed with my bond. Get them all attachment warrants in my name. Just make sure their proposal contains nothing too unreasonable.’

  ‘On what criteria, my lord?’ Diamantis asked.

  ‘Use your discretion,’ said Dorn. He turned and moved on without another word.

  Diamantis looked at Sindermann. ‘What is this about?’ he asked. ‘Remembrancers, lord,’ Sindermann replied. ‘A new order. A small one, I assure you.’

  ‘I thought we were long past that,’ said Diamantis.

  ‘My Lord Dorn-‘ Sindermann began.

  ‘I heard him,’ said Diamantis. ‘You have this proposal?’

  ‘Here,’ said Sindermann, pulling a folded parchment from under his coat.

  Dorn passed under the old arch and onto the walkway. It was a broad, high bridge that spanned the deep gulf between Bhab Bastion and an annex of smaller drum towers to the west. The bridge was lit by more of the glass
-hooded tapers. High above, the sky swirled with a darkness that looked like low thunderhead cloud. He could hear the creak and moan of the void shields, the uneven thump and rumble of distant, constant bombardment. The southern horizon was lit with a dull and throbbing orange light that made a silhouette out of the immense Lion’s Gate and the neighbouring towers.

  Far below the bridge span, the access streets and thoroughfares were choked with people, rivers of displaced citizens flowing into the Sanctum Imperialis. Officials and Adeptus Arbites with light poles were routing each long, migrating convoy towards temporary shelters: halls, libraries, gymnasia, theatres; any decent spaces that could be requisitioned and spared. The displaced were welling in through the Lion’s Gate and the other gatehouses of the Ultimate Wall, driven from their homes in Magnifican and Anterior, desperate for shelter in the one zone of the Imperial super-palace that was still deemed safe and unviolated. Dorn could see people with small sacks of possessions, with handcarts, with children. How many millions had been driven out of the port zone and the northern reach of Anterior? How many millions more would follow?

  Where would they go if the enemy breached the Ultimate Wall?

  Midway across the bridge, Dorn realised he could hear an odd, incessant chime that his genhanced senses could detect above the moan of the aegis, the muffled bombardment and the low drone of unnumbered voices from far below.

  He stopped.

  My lord?’ asked Cadwalder, his remaining Huscarl.

  Dorn raised his hand. That sound… Where was it coming from?

  The lamps. The glass hoods of the bridge lights were all trembling in their holders, very slightly, invisibly, but he could hear their shiver. He realised the bridge was also vibrating very, very slightly, so little, a standart human could not have sensed it.

  But it was there, the… What had Sindermann called it?The tremble.

  The whole Palace was shaking. Not from fear. From the constant exterior impacts.

  He started walking again, reached the horseshoe arch of the annex, and went inside.

  The drum tower was as old as Bhab, but a tiny sibling of its vast and ugly neighbour. A Custodian Prefect Warden stood in the upper access, waiting for him; a regal golden statue with a draped crimson cloak, ornate castellan axe upright.

  ‘My lord,’ he said.

  ‘Prefect Tsutomu,’ Dorn replied. ‘He awaits?’

  ‘At your pleasure.’

  The Custodian led them in. Dorn had requested a private meeting, away from bastion activity. None of the usual conference chambers of audience halls. Just a little gallery room in the thick, stone peak of the drum tower.

  Constantine Vador waited within. The captain-general of the Legio Custodes sat at the long table, his gleaming helm resting on the tabletop at his elbow. Scores of cylinder candles stood on the table, their flames the only light in the old room.

  ‘Irregular,’ Valdor remarked as Dorn entered.

  ‘You’ll excuse that, I’m sure,’ Dorn replied.

  ‘What’s the business, my lord?’ Valdor asked.

  Dorn glanced at Tsutomu and Cadwalder, who had taken station inside the door.

  ‘You may step out,’ he said to them.

  ‘Tsutomu can he trusted,’ said Valdor, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘So can my Huscarl,’ Dorn replied quickly. He hesitated. ‘Stay,’ he told the two warriors, ‘but appreciate the utter confidence of what is about to take place.’

  He sat down, facing the master of the Legio Custodes. They were old friends, but there was tension.

  ‘So, what is about to take place?’ Valdor asked.

  Dorn raised his index finger. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘For now, small talk.’

  ‘I don’t believe I need to point out to you that we have precious little time for such luxuries these days,’ said Valdor.

  ‘Indulge me.’

  Valdor shrugged. ‘How did you settle things with your brother?’ he asked, as if the subject were trivial.

  ‘Jaghatai? Well enough. He wants to go for the port.’

  ‘Of course he does.’

  ‘Defensive doctrines are not his preference,’ Dorn agreed.

  ‘Not fair,’ Valdor replied. ‘The Khagan simply defends by attack. His Legion has always been energetically mobile. They are chafing. And the port is a logical and viable objective. Essential, some might argue.’

  ‘And he did argue,’ replied Dorn. ‘It’s safe to say I’ve never seen him that angry with me. Or perhaps angry with the world. Or me and the world. And I’ve never seen him so tired.’

  ‘It’s a sorry day for us all when the likes of you and your brother are fatigued,’ said the First of the Ten Thousand.

  ‘Everyone’s tired, Constantin,’ said Dorn. He sat back and watched the candle flames dance. ‘The attrition rate in the bastion is savage. Officers falling sick, breaking down, suffering nervous exhaustion. Every few days, there are fresh faces to learn – new officers, new aides, new generals, stepping in, filling shifts.’

  ‘The shift rollover is punishing. How long do they get to sleep? Three hours? Then there’s the sheer volume of data-flow. We don’t all have minds like yours, Rogal.’

  ‘It doesn’t help when Jaghatai storms in and dismisses two good seniors out of hand.’

  ‘For what crime?’

  ‘Being tired. Speaking too frankly. Being human.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Valdor.

  ‘Niborran.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And another. Ah…’

  ‘Brohn, my lord,’ said Cadwalder from the door.

  ‘Brohn, yes. I’ll find roles for them elsewhere. It’s not as if we don’t need good officers across the board.’

  ‘Still, Saul Niborran’s been there since day one,’ said Valdor. He scowled.

  ‘And he’s probably burned out. It happens.’

  ‘Isn’t he too old for active line?’ asked Valdor. ‘I mean, the fellow’s only human.’

  ‘I don’t think age limits factor in this any more,’ said Dorn.

  They both stopped talking. The candle flames trembled. Neither of them was good at casual conversation.

  Only human. Valdor’s words hung in the candle smoke. Neither of them was human. They had both been gifted with extended spans that were supposed to outlive war so they could aspire to things beyond it. But war was all they had known, and already they had seen through too many mortal generations. Humans had been born, lived, and died of old age several times within their lifespans, and still war persisted. Dorn and Valdor had never spoken of it, but they both privately feared they had, through necessity, become too moulded by the one role that they could never leave it. They could not talk easily or lightly, like men, or pause to consider the nuances of culture. They could not relax or reflect. Martial responsibility had pushed all other concerns out of them. Even the simplest conversation turned to logistics and strategies. Humans lived and died like gadflies, Dorn thought. Where did they find the time in their short spans to be anything other than warriors when I can’t find it in mine? And I was supposed to find it. I was supposed to be so many things. Soldier was only one of them.

  ‘We were born for more,’ he muttered.

  Valdor looked at him. The Praetorian realised he had spoken out loud, unguarded. He was about to brush the remark aside, but the captain-general of the Custodians held his gaze. Valdor simply nodded. His eyes betrayed a sad hint of empathy.

  ‘We were,’ he said. ‘Born to fashion a future.’

  ‘And enjoy it,’ said Dorn.

  ‘Enjoy it, yes. Be part of it, not just its midwives. When we were made, the future was full.’

  ‘And now there is only war.’

  Valdor exhaled, then laughed. He rubbed the stripe of cropped hair that ran across his otherwise shaven scalp.

  ‘We will prevail, Rogal,’ he said. ‘One day, you’ll break your sword and hang up your shield, and you will sit, and laugh, and from t
he window, see golden towers standing without fear or aegis or batteries, freed from all possibility of threat because of what we do now.’

  ‘You believe that without hesitation, don’t you, Constantin?’

  ‘I have to. The alternative is unacceptable.’

  ‘But, from the way you speak, you don’t see that as your future, then?’ Dorn asked.

  ‘My duty will never end,’ Valdor replied. ‘The primarchs were wrought to build an Imperium. Your task, however hard, has an end. Mine docs not. The Custodians were born simply to protect Him. It is what we will always do.’

  ‘You always thought the primarchs were a mistake, didn’t you?’ said Dorn.

  Valdor looked at him. ‘I-‘

  ‘You had misgivings.’

  ‘What I may have felt hardly matters,’ Valdor replied. ‘Especially now. We stand together. You and I, at His side, against this fall of night. We must be allies, without reservation or recrimination, and I trust that we are.’

  He sighed. ‘So…’ he said, turning them away from contemplation quickly, ‘you were saying. Your brother?’

  ‘I let him simmer,’ said Dorn. ‘Then I took him aside. I told him he could have the port. Take it, with my blessing. It’s not as if I’m going to go to war with him about it. I simply requested he took his force out to it via Colossi, and did a little work there first to holster the line, so that strengths from the port could fall back if they had to.’

  ‘He agreed?’

  ‘Yes. It’s mobile assault. The fight before Colossi is a running war for now. The White Scars get to slip loose. But he knew what I was doing’

  ‘Saving face for him?’

  Dorn nodded, ‘Jaghatai knows I can’t spare one of my two loyal brothers in a gambit at the port, no matter the potential gain. But he’d said what he’d said. He knows Colossi is a shitstorm, and getting worse by the hour. He’ll be locked there. He’ll see it’s where he’s most needed.’

  ‘And it’s where you wanted to put him?’